The Best Mistakes
by njchrispatrick
Summary: A one-shot about a never-been-seen parent for Harry. Darcy and Fandral have so much in common; what if they had met, many years before, when Darcy was sixteen? Something very special came from that encounter, and because of it Asgard and the Warriors Three will never be the same.


**A/N: Don't worry, I am not starting another story. This is just a one-shot that I thought up and couldn't let go of.**

**Maybe it should be Thor/HP.**

**Big thanks to AnarchicMuse for betaing.**

* * *

Harry frowned when he saw another person in the street point and stare at him. Everywhere he went he got loads of attention for being the 'Man-Who-Conquered', defeater of Voldemort. If this was what it was like for Dumbledore then it was no wonder that his ego swelled to ginormous proportions.

All these people who hailed him as their 'savior' were the same people who had previously ridiculed him for speaking the truth.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Potter!" cried Daedalus Diggle as he ran up, grabbing Harry's hand and shaking it. "Thank you for defeating Voldemort for us!"

Harry snarled as he yanked his hand back fiercely, his patience officially at an end. "I didn't do it for you!" he snapped, looming over the short man. He cast his gaze around Diagon Alley, where everyone was watching them. "Or any of you! I stopped Voldemort because it was the right thing to do. But if any of you had gotten off your fat, lazy arses and _done_ something then Voldemort would have been killed decades ago!"

A hand on his arm directed his attention to Hermione, who was standing next to him and giving him a disapproving look. "Harry, that's not true," she whispered harshly. "You were prophesized to defeat him, remember?"

"Prophecies are a load of horse shit," he retorted. "And Dumbledore was stupid to believe in it." Ignoring her scandalized look he tore his arm from her grasp and stormed off to the apparition point.

* * *

Harry wrinkled up his nose as he glared at his reflection, searching his features for any signs of what he was looking for. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see. Everything about his face suggested that Harry was barely pushing fifteen, while is actual age was nearly eighteen. Even his height was pathetic; 5'7", shorter than even Hermione (though she had like three inches of hair).

He sighed to himself and lowered the mirror. He didn't understand what it meant; it was like puberty had skipped him! He had always looked young, but now it was just embarrassing. It was quite noticeable when he was on the run with Ron and Hermione, and while Ron had thick orange stubble on his face Harry barely had a peach-fuzz mustache.

Suddenly a window opened and Hedwig flew in, at least twenty owls following behind her, all carrying letters and/or packages. They then proceeded to dump them on the dining room table and flew out.

Harry was living in Grimmauld Place, Sirius's old house. He had been rather reluctant to, considering that it was where his memories of Sirius were, but he had nowhere else. Well, nowhere else _private_. The Weasleys and Hermione had been nagging him to come stay at the Burrow but he had refused every time. He was a grown man, at least by magical law; he did not want to room in a giant rickety house.

Moving into Grimmauld Place had been done with a complete lack of ceremony. He had just taken everything in the house that wasn't bolted down, hauled it out to the weedy backyard, and burned it. All the pictures had come down, and if they were stuck on there he had taken off a chunk of wall as well. The wallpaper—gone, the dreary lights—gone, the Black Family Tapestry—gone. All the wards were stripped and replaced with ones he had found, and no one could get in but him. He had then found some nice, basic furniture in a muggle store and decorated only a bedroom for himself and the dining room.

Professor McGonagall had been trying to convince him to return to Hogwarts for his Seventh Year, but he refused her. After the hell that was his year of fighting Voldemort there was no way that he could return to school to be stared at and fawned over. No, he was going to find something, anything, to do that would keep him out of the public light. Hermione had sent him a letter berating him for his choice of not returning but he had burned it; his life, not hers.

Then there was the whole issue with Ginny. Harry liked her, yes, but not in a romantic way as he had once thought. After long speculation he had realized that he merely found her a bit pretty, but not hot or even attractive to him. She was more like a little sister than anything. In hindsight he had probably latched onto her for romantic interest because she was the only female, besides Hermione, that he really knew.

Harry picked up all of the letters and packages and unceremoniously dumped them into the fire. He had no interest in reading people's petty thanks or apologizes. His statement in Diagon Alley had spawned a front-page _Daily Prophet_ article that had dozen sending him either apologizes or reprimands. Luckily one of his wards deflected Howlers and sent them to the almost-empty cellar. Almost-empty because he had left Mrs. Black's portrait in there, curtains gone, for kicks.

He dug a few pamphlets out of his pocket. He had picked them up in the muggle world, and all were for nice vacation spots. He felt that he had earned a vacation. Hopefully none of his friends would find out or they would give him hell for it. Hermione seemed to be picking up on Mrs. Weasley's loud tones, no doubt from spending time with her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Ron had proposed to Hermione just after the Battle of Hogwarts. No doubt Ginny expected one soon, but she wouldn't be getting one, at least not from him.

Harry summoned his suitcase and began to pack, planning on being out of England before Ron and Hermione came to visit, as they did every Saturday, in an attempt to get him out in the Wizarding World.

* * *

Harry flashed a grin at his waitress as he took a non-alcoholic cocktail from her tray. His grin widened as she blushed and quickly walked away. He took a sip of the drink and sighed, looking over at the waves crashing in the distance.

He was in Hawaii. It was a rather expensive trip, but he had plenty of money to do it. It was almost like the moment he left England all his angst and tension was left there along with his responsibility. He could do things that most teens did but he had never had a chance to do; party, relax, and flirt, something that he had never done but was surprisingly good at. He may have had a young look to him but a girl earlier had told him that he had an 'aura of maturity'. Now if only he was taller…

"You have some blonde showing there," said a voice.

Harry turned and looked at the woman sitting in the booth next to him. She looked to be about eighteen or so, with beautiful dark blonde hair and a tanned complexion. Her brown eyes were like melted chocolate.

He stared at her for a moment before registering what she had said. "Huh?"

Her lips parted and she smiled, teeth blindingly white. She reached a hand up and rubber the hair at her temple. "You have some blonde showing here," she repeated. "I think that your dye is fading."

Harry's hand shot up to his hair as he glanced at his reflection in one of the mirrors decorating the beach-side restaurant. Indeed, he had blonde hair showing at the roots of the hair on his temples, making it look like he had forgotten to dye it.

"Sorry if I seem forward," the woman apologized. "But I thought that you would want to know. Though, why would anyone with such pretty hair want to cover it up?"

He didn't know what to say; he wasn't blonde, and he certainly hadn't dyed it! But, with nothing else to say, he lied. "I…was in a play, a while ago, and I had to dye my hair black."

He thought that the woman wouldn't believe him but surprisingly she did. "Oh, I see. Well, I think that blonde hair would suit you." She held out her hand. "Carla Summers."

He shook her hand. "Harry Potter."

Carla's eyebrows shot up. "You're British! I didn't notice before." She grinned again, the tip of her tongue poking through her teeth.

"Yea, I am. I wanted to get away on a vacation, so I thought, 'Why not Hawaii?'"

They both laughed.

"Well I'm from California and I'm visiting my mother and family here. I'm from her originally; born and raised."

"Really?" he glanced around. "Any suggestions for things to do? I'm at a loss."

Carla laughed as she stood from her chair. "Well I'm free for a while. How about I just show you?"

Harry laughed as he quickly finished his cocktail and left the glass on the table with a substantial tip. He held out his arm. "Shall we go?" he asked her, putting on a faux-posh accent and a serious face.

She took his arm, an identical expression on her face. "Let's."

* * *

Harry had a wonderful week in Hawaii. Carla was terrific. She showed him all over the island, they had fun, and she had introduced him to sex for the first time. They parted ways when he had to return to England, and her last words to him were advice. He hadn't told her about the Wizarding World, but he had told her about his expectations.

"A life of duty isn't a life worth living," she had said. "You want to make a real difference? Do it by being yourself, not by being what they want you to be."

So Harry was going to do just that. No duty and responsibility and all that shit.

There was also the puzzle of what was going on with his hair. After Carla had first pointed it out to him he noticed that _all_ of his hair was changing color, even his eyebrows and tiny facial hairs. It was unlike anything that he had ever seen, and he wasn't sure what to do. The blonde was growing out with his hair and so he hadn't noticed it originally, but it was now clear as day. The hair was a bright sunny-blonde, not platinum-blonde like Draco Malfoy's but still far lighter than most guys had. Harry has no clue where it was coming from.

To get it over with he had just case a Hair-Growing Charm on himself, making his hair grow out by several inches. He had then cut off the black parts, leaving only the blonde. It was curious to see himself with blonde hair when he looked in the mirror. The only irritating side was that the black peach fuzz on his face that he had been hoping would one day become a beard was now invisible.

His friends had been less than thrilled when they heard of his plans. According to them it was his 'duty' to help take care of the magical world and replace Dumbledore. Harry had no intention of becoming a secretive old man with too many secrets, and he told them so. He explained everything; now that his job was done he would do what he wanted, and if they were his friends then they would stick by him. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley had loudly protested, but surprisingly Luna, Ginny, and Neville stood by him. Ginny had been getting closer to Neville and it seemed like they would work together. They had wished him luck with whatever he did.

However, it was Luna who had the most interesting goodbye for him. She looked him right in the eyes and said that, _"The Dashing was coming for him."_ He had no clue what that meant. She had then asked him if he 'had any work done', which brought something else to his attention: It wasn't just his hair that was changing, he had just been so focused on it that he had missed the other ones.

It took digging out a picture of himself from the end of Sixth Year to really see it, but see it he did. He was _changing_. His chin was stronger and wider, his jawline had more definition and he had faint dimples when he smiled. His nose had gained an upturned end and his hairline was lower. When he actually noticed them he was shocked that he hadn't seen it before. No wonder the Weasleys hasn't believed who he was at first, especially with his scar fading.

Would he change more? Most likely, especially considering how his features were already altering. Would it be noticeable? Yes; he was looking less like scrawny Harry Potter and more like a short movie star.

So he had one thing in mind. Leave. He had the money, he could travel, go on vacations. He could see the world and one day settle down with a new name and a new face.

* * *

Darcy looked turned as she heard a knocking sound, Erik's need of proof ringing in her ears. She could see it, but she knew that the stuffy old scientists wants everything laid out for them with a bib and a baby tray to match.

However, all those thoughts were driven from her mind when she saw the three people dressed in outlandish outfits standing at the door; or more particularly the _phenomenally_ attractive man standing farthest to the right. The thick blonde hair, the well-trimmed mustache and goatee, the muscular figure…

"Shit," she swore, her mug falling to the floor and shattering. The noise was lost in the chaos as the three (Asgardian?) warriors entered into the lab, glancing around at the various objects lying there.

Darcy completely missed the greetings, her gaze fixed on the man. How could _he_ be here? More importantly, _why_ was he here? If he was one of Thor's friends, the Warriors Three, then that would mean that he was…

"Fair maiden!" the man of her thoughts called, striding over to her. He grinned that same charming smile that had drawn her in all those years ago. "Have we met? You look very familiar to me, however, I cannot quite recall your name."

Darcy wasn't offended; she couldn't remember his, though she could certainly remember the night. "Darcy," she greeted with a small wave. "And yes, we have met. About…seventeen years ago, I think?"

He grinned wider and she had a sudden urge to kiss him, but refrained. "Ah yes, the Lady Darcy! You took me to that tavern with the colorful ale!"

Oh yes, she remembered now. Fandral. His strange name, archaic speech, and confusing words had drawn her in out of curiosity, but she was ensnared by his personality and good looks. They had gone out for margaritas and shots. And, more importantly, she remembered what that night had born fruit to. She had been only sixteen. "You're an Asgardian?"

He beamed widely and nodded. "Yes, fair Darcy. Thor and I have been good friends for many a century. Why, since before our first battle!"

So he was really old, then. What was the male version of a cougar? "But then why—"

Her voice was cut off as they spotted a whirling cyclone appearing from a cloud in the distance. "Was somebody else coming?"

* * *

Harry pulled up his lip as he eyed his teeth. Indeed, they had shifted from their slightly uneven and crooked path to straight and perfect blocks of enamel worthy of Gilderoy Lockhart.

It was yet another thing to add to Harry's list of bodily changes. He reasoned that the change, whatever it was, was about done. And boy, had it been a big change.

His dark hair had completely morphed to a sunny blonde that shined in the sunlight. His complexion began to tan in the sun in a way that it never had, and all his blemishes and freckles had vanished. His jaw and chin had been completely reshaped, giving his face a fuller look to it. His eyes had grown larger and changed to a dark-chocolate-brown that gave him a mysterious look when coupled with his hair. He also no longer needed glasses. His nose had gained a slightly upturned end and his hands grew stronger, his fingers lengthening slightly.

But the strangest changes had been to his body below the neckline. His shoulders had widened and his body had grown stronger, with more muscle mass than before. His legs had lengthened by about an inch, making him taller but unfortunately still quite short. His feet had grown as well, as had…other things. Needless to say he went shopping for new shoes and underwear.

However, while he had grown and changed, he still lacked an adult look. Sure he looked very handsome—movie star or model handsome at least—but like a fifteen-year-old model. He was short, lacked muscle, and his voice was not as deep as most men's were. It was infuriating because he still looked like puberty had skipped him. Though it hadn't stopped women from flirting with him, albeit only ones in the late teens.

While it disgusted him to even think about, all he could guess was that his mother had an affair and whatever spell she put on him to disguise him was fading. He desperately hoped that his father was not Gilderoy Lockhart.

* * *

"You are serious!?" Fandral gasped out, his jaw hanging limp and his eyes wide.

Darcy nodded, face serious for once. "Yes. I was sixteen and pregnant, what else what I supposed to do? Apply for a sitcom so everyone could stare at me?"

Fandral shook his head slightly in confusion. "But…but that means…"

"Yep!" said Darcy cheerfully, placing a hand on the much taller man's shoulder. "You're a daddy. To a seventeen—no wait, eighteen—year old boy."

Fandral collapsed to the ground as his knees went weak. They were standing about a half-mile away from the town in New Mexico where Darcy worked. Fandral had stayed while his friends returned to Asgard because apparently Darcy had something very important to tell him. Though, according to a message that Thor had sent an hour or so ago, Fandral would not be able to return for a mortal day or so because the Bifrost needed to be fixed.

But _this_! He had a son, with the mortal woman Darcy! In hindsight he had been careless; Asgardians were far less fertile than mortals and he never would have expected to impregnate the young girl. And now he had a son out there, somewhere on Midgard.

What if the boy inherited his father's immortality? It was not unheard of for it to happen, but it was unlikely. However, if it did, the boy would be set apart. Asgardians aged like humans through childhood, but their maturity—puberty as mortals called it—came later. Asgardians experienced that change later, and it was stretched out over a longer period of time.

"We must find him," said Fandral suddenly, pushing himself to his feet.

"Woah," interrupted Darcy, stepping in front of him as he began to walk towards the town. "Do you get what adoption means? He had his own little life and family, most likely. And besides, I certainly would suck at being a mother. Heck, I am in college a decade later than everyone else!"

Fandral shook his head. "If he is my son then I must meet him," he demanded. "I must see him, Lady Darcy. And if he is my son—"

"He is!" Darcy snapped, putting her hands on her hips. "You were my first time, Blondie. I wouldn't forget you, your funky little beard, and that night."

"—then he may not be an ordinary mortal," finished Fandral. "He may have inherited my gifts."

Darcy paused and stared up at him. "Wait, so you're saying that I might have pushed a future god out of my hole?" She grinned. "Cool! That is so going on a bumper sticker." She held up her hands as she mimed the words in the air above her. "_God Pooper Here."_

Fandral gave her his most pleading eyes, the ones that he often used on women to get them in his bed.

"Stow the puppy-dog look," Darcy snapped as she held up a hand. "Come on then, let's go find the little god-boy."

* * *

Darcy pushed the supposed 'Fandral the Dashing, Greatest Swordsman in Asgard' down into the chair with a loud huff before going to grab some tacos for them to eat. "Don't move!" she called over her shoulder as she felt him beginning to rise.

When she returned the man was rubbing his mustache lightly and (surprisingly) ignoring the red-head making doe-eyes at him from two tables over. "Oi, Blondie," she said as she smacked him. He blinked and looked up at her. "What'ya thinking about?" she asked as she stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth.

Fandral watched as she quickly followed the chips with a taco. "How is a woman able to eat so much at one time? I have only ever seen Thor and Volstagg eat as fast."

"I ate a lot when I was pregnant." Darcy cast him a heavy glance through her eyelashes. "I don't have a gag reflex anymore," she said in a husky voice. Then she tilted her head back up to normal and grinned.

Fandral stiffened and sat up a touch straighter as he realized the implications of what she had said and the nether regions of his body reacted accordingly. "Fair Darcy, are all Midgardian females as fine as you?"

"Nope!" replied Darcy cheerfully as she took a big bite of her taco.

* * *

Darcy and Fandral peeked out from the alley next to a building as they watched the short, blonde, and handsome person walk down the street in front of them.

"I thought that he'd be taller," complained Darcy as she watched the boy who was her son stroll away from them.

Agent Balding (as Darcy had nicknamed Coulson) had been quite helpful in helping them search for their son. The usage of several hundred computers had been instrumental in finding Harry James Potter, the name from the family that he had been adopted into. As it turned out he was in California, staying in a popular vacation resort in Los Angeles.

As Fandral watched his son turn the corner ahead he was ecstatic. Sure Darcy did not understand the implications of Harry (and that name was not suited to an Asgardian warrior) being so small and young-looking, but Fandral did. His son was Asgardian, just like his father. His son would age slower for a year or two more before staying the same age for millennia. He, like Fandral and every other Asgardian, would live to be nearly 50,000 years old, give or take a thousand years or so.

"Come," he hissed, tugging at Darcy's arm. "We must go meet him."

* * *

Harry raised one eyebrow at the blonde man, unimpressed. While he would admit that there was an uncanny resemblance between them it did not denote that they were father and son.

"You're a god?" he deadpanned. It wasn't so much that he disbelieved it, it was more disbelief at the possibility of his father being a god. Wizards had history with the Asgardians, and the man _had_ been able to lift a car with one hand with ease.

The man obviously didn't notice the sarcasm and beamed as he nodded. "Yes. I am Fandral the Dashing, Greatest Swordsman in Asgard."

"And I'm Darcy!" greeted the rather busty woman next to him. She waved her hand. "I'm the god pooper."

* * *

Darcy watched through the window as Harry swam around in the pool in their backyard. Or rather, not theirs, but Erik's; he had lent them his old house to stay in. It was in Arizona, about halfway between New Mexico and L.A.

Darcy had never been one for the _homey_ atmosphere, and this was all far too domestic for her. A house, a pool, a guy and a kid. Though admittedly the kid was more of a man, and the guy was more of a god, but still.

A noise made her turn from the window. There was Fandral, emerging from the backyard dripping wet. Blood rushed to her face as she suddenly realized that he was stark naked. Fandral was hot, wet, and stark naked in front of her and it was really hard to control herself. Hair dripped down from his straight blonde hair and beard, getting caught in his thick, curly blonde chest hair and running down his extremely muscular chest—_not as buff as Thor's but with more definition and __**god**__ was it hot in here?—_and then pooling at his…thing…and making its way down his powerful legs and pooling on the floor. "Where's your towel?" she shrieked, or rather squeaked.

Fandral cocked his head to the side slightly in confusion. "Towel?" he asked in bewilderment. Then his eyes widened in realization. "Ah, yes, the drying cloth." He shrugged unabashedly. "I saw no reason to use it when the sun here dries me well enough."

Darcy had to snap her mouth shut before drool escaped it. She tried to protest but all that came out was a weak whimper.

A wicked gleam entered the god's eyes. "Why?" he asked, taking a few slow steps towards her. She tried to ignore how certain parts of his body swung as he stepped. "Do you find me unappealing to look at?" he asked as he stopped perhaps a half-foot from her, the water from his hair dripping onto her.

Darcy couldn't find anything to say as he took her chin and tilted her head up, pressing his damp mouth against hers. Her arms wrapped around him as his did the same to her, pulling her flush to his wet body. The soft mustache and beard tickled her face as she fisted his hair.

_'__Best. Summer. Ever.'_

* * *

Luna smiled as she read through the letter that had been left on her pillow. She had been instantly able to tell who it was from; the spidery handwriting and smell of peppermint shampoo were distinctive.

_Dear Luna,_

_How has it been? I know that you all haven't heard from me in several months, but I am great. My life is great._

_I hope that you had a fun last year at Hogwarts; no more Death Eaters or Voldemort to worry about. Ginny and Neville have probably gotten together, which is good. They each need someone._

_You were right, Luna. The Dashing did come for me. Fandral the Dashing, my father. Did you know that he's an Asgardian? According to him I am as well. I'll live to be ridiculously old. But don't worry, I'll always remember you. If I ever have a daughter I will name her Luna._

_Live long, happy, and well. You are my best and truest friend Luna. Have a wonderful and fantastic life for me, okay?_

_Harry Potter (Fandralson, as he insists)_

A single tear leaked from Luna's eye and splashed against the page, the only evidence of her sadness. No one had known, but Luna had been in love with Harry. He was handsome, and funny, and far smarter than anyone gave him credit for. However, she had known that it would never work out between them. She was merely a mortal, while Harry would one day walk in eternity.

* * *

Fandral beamed with joy as he presented his son to his friends, Thor, Sif, Volstagg and Hogun. He had taken Darcy and Harry to Asgard to introduce them to everyone.

"How wonderful!" boomed Thor loudly as he swung an arm around Harry's shoulder. The boy's knees buckled slightly under the weight of the man's arm and armor, but he stood strong. "Your son looks just like you, Fandral!" He then grinned at Darcy. "And Darcy is your mother? You have her eyes."

Darcy inhaled dramatically and fluttered her eyelashes at Thor. "Oh do go on darling, please," she gasped flamboyantly.

Thor, by now more used to Darcy's ways, understood the sarcasm. He looked over at Fandral. "Is your son immortal?"

"Yes," replied Fandral.

Volstagg laughed as he put a hand on Harry's other shoulder. This time the boy was obviously struggling to hold the weight; his increased body density and strength had not come in yet. "How wonderful! We can train him to be a mighty warrior of Asgard!"

Darcy sidled up to Sif. "What's up," she greeted with a wave.

Sif glanced upward. "The…ceiling?" she guessed.

Darcy just swung an arm around Sif's shoulder like Thor had done to Harry. "You're funny, War Mistress! I think that we'll be good friends."

* * *

_50 Years Later_

Fandral smiled proudly as he watched his son joke and laugh with Thor and Hogun across the table from him. It was a party in honor of their group, his son in particular, who had slain his first Bilgesnipe. It was a momentous occasion for an Asgardian boy; it was his first act of valor and proving himself a man.

Harry, or rather Haldral—as he had allowed himself to be renamed by his father, roughly meaning Fandral's Rock—had grown up to be even more handsome than his father. It was proof that the best things were worth waiting for; it took almost two decades, but his son had grown into a fine young man.

Haldral had undergone a massive growth a few years after Fandral had found him, shooting up to the massive height of 6'5", just a touch taller than Fandral, who stood at 6'4½". Haldral had also lost the young and childish look, his features becoming strong and masculine. His voice had deepened by a great deal as well and his body had grown larger and gained more muscle mass. Haldral did bear a great resemblance to Fandral, but he was less muscular—due to his very young age—and he had grown a beard different than Fandral's. Facial hair had been the thing that the boy was waiting for, and he had been eager to grow a beard since he had never been able to. His beard covered his face, like Thor's, though it was not quite as long and his growth was slightly thicker on his upper lip and on his chin as a testament to his father. He had a tendency to wear tighter clothing as well, accentuating his growing muscles. All in all, he was a magnet for females in Asgard.

As far as they could guess, the mortal magic which had disguised Haldral had faded away when he began to reach Asgardian physical majority. The spells were broken as he came into his inheritance.

While Fandral had a reputation for bouncing from woman to woman, Haldral had a reputation for never noticing women. Or, rather, not noticing the ones who always followed him. He was charming and mildly flirtatious, but not nearly as sexually active as Fandral was. Though, again, Harry was still quite young for an Asgardian; he might be different when he got older.

Fandral had dimmed down his wooing habits after he met Darcy. With Odin's permission they had gotten married, something rarely, if ever, done. It had made Fandral sad, knowing that he would have to watch her age and die, but he still had his son to remember her by. Darcy had been a very strong-spirited woman, even at the old age (for mortals) of 83, the age that she had died. Today was the anniversary of her death, which was why Haldral had wanted his ceremony today.

Thor had married Jane Foster, the mortal. Odin had been reluctant to allow it, but he had turned Jane into an immortal like Thor. She was not an Asgardian—the All-Father did that for no one—but her lifespan was dramatically extended. Haldral saw Thor and Jane as his aunt and uncle, because of their closeness to his parents.

Haldral had told Fandral many stories of his life on Midgard, including about his former godfather, Sirius Black. Fandral had liked the idea and had asked Thor to be Haldral's godfather; the one who took care of him if Fandral were killed. Thor had been deeply touched, and had shocked everyone by declaring that, if he were to die without an heir, Haldral would be the one to take the throne. It was so shocking because, due to Jane's biology as a former mortal, the odds of them conceiving an immortal child like Haldral were slim.

Fandral's thoughts were interrupted as Thor called out, in a loud voice, "To the man of the day, Haldral Fandralson!" Thor raised his glass loudly as he called this out. Everyone mimicked him, repeating the call. Fandral could see his son grinning widely.

Fandral raised his glass with the rest of them before downing the ale. No doubt his son would be rather drunk later, with this being his first time drinking, and Fandral would help get him home. "You were correct, Fair Lady Darcy," he muttered to himself as he looked at his son, now a handsome young man. "Harry really is the best mistake that I ever made."

* * *

**A/N: I love Fandral. We need more with him.**

**Not very well-written, but it had to be done. I would have loved to make it longer, and use someone else besides Darcy, but I had no inspiration.**

**I would love to see a story with Loki as Harry's parent, like is so common, but with a twist. Like maybe a careless/drunk/devious Loki got pregnant via Fandral and Odin gives the son away for fear of him being a monster.**

**In case you are wondering why I talked about his attractiveness so much, it is because Fandral is supposedly one of if not the most attractive of all Asgardians.**

**Or Fandral with someone else, like Sif. Heck, do an mpreg if you want! I think that Thor and Fandral would be funny. Maybe Loki pulled a prank that went too far.**

**I may one day write a sequel to this, but it too would be a one-shot.**

**Reviews?**


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